Authors Note: First, about posting: I have decided to post the chapters I have currently finished. They are subject to revision, and I have yet to complete the story. Both items are different than they way I normally do things, but I'm going to try it out. I firmly commit to finishing this story at some point, but I wanted to get this up before "someday" rolled around. Also, like always, my chapter length will be determined by the needs of the story, so don't be getting your hopes up. They will still be in the 3K word range, as is usual for me.

Second, about the genesis for this story:

Ok, let's think this through. There are a lot of old books, with proprietary, otherwise unknown, or just plain secret information about dark spells and rituals. There are books that hold recipes for specialized potions that haven't been seen for decades – or centuries. And we're supposed to believe that the spell inventor or Dark Wizard that collected this information … sent out his book of secret spells to a printer and had just one copy printed off to put in his library?

Even when we know that quills can be spelled to write with perfect calligraphy in response to verbal dictation?

Really?

Obviously, the majority of spells and potion tomes are written with a quill and then duplicated by magic (we also know of the gemino charm, right?) This fits with what we have been shown about how fragmented the collection of knowledge is in the magical world, and with what we know about how wizards and witches are trying to keep magical knowledge secret from the mundane world. (Which reminds me – how does The Daily Prophet keep copies from landing in the hands of all us Muggles? A new edition every day, with animated pictures on the front page … and we never see any of that?)

So, what happens when a bibliophile encounters what looks like hand written books … and knows about how to produce a quality book on her own?

I read The Dentists' Daughter, by Old Crow. That, combined with some other thoughts I've had, about how Hermione's behaviors and descriptions of her behavior didn't really match, about the kind of environment that would create such a girl, about how the personality of a young bookworm should really be shown, and how children really don't value peers that show different interests or behavior, made this. Given how much of this was inspired by (or is a reaction to) the work of others in the FanFiction community, I own even less of this than is usual. Please don't think I own the characters, plot, mileu, ideas, or pixels. JKR owns most of it, and what she doesn't, can be traced back to others. Or your power company. Maybe Dell?

I hope that you enjoy this anyway. Warning: Those who idolize Miss Granger should probably choose to read elsewhere.

The Unbearable Misery of Family

Hermione was a lonely little girl. Bright, though, everyone always said. Well, she was now ten years old – almost eleven – and not so little. Her parent's friends were always remarking about that. None of them ever mentioned how she never had playmates, how her parents never saw her except when she was produced like a trophy at the ever-present parties. Nobody ever noticed that her parents showed how they pretended to love her by buying her things – with the frequent intention that she should now go off somewhere else.

These were not parents that built a close-knit family. These were self-absorbed adults that had a child at the 'appropriate' time because it was 'the thing to do.' They were both relieved when they were able to put all the 'child-stuff' away and return to their adult conversations about themselves and money and the money they had, themselves, and the wonderful things that money could buy.

Such as ice and glassware and the many, many, many varieties of alcohol. Sometimes paired with food.

It should be kept in mind that these were adults that had deliberately chosen dentistry as a profession so they could insist on the title of Doctor while absolutely refusing to provide emergency services (especially emergency hours.) Had they a bit more self-awareness or a bit less certainty about their place in the world, they would have defined the term parvenu. In short, W. Daniel Granger and M. Emma Granger née Wilkins were perfect for each other, abysmally absent for their daughter, and of no use to or for anyone else.

Hermione – so named because it screamed 'parental social pretensions' and 'parental social cluelessness' – therefore took what solace she could in whatever interactions she could find that were quiet, unobtrusive, and permitted. In short, only the imaginary kind, which meant … literature. As her parents were flush with more dosh than was good for them, and as Hermione had once actually attempted to produce a book (at the age of six – while they were inattentive, the Grangers did remember), the girl child had been gifted with a Macintosh IIfx, LaserWriter II NTX, and a full suite of office software. Which she didn't really need, but … what else would a computer be used for?

Driven by boredom and a lurking curiosity, Hermione had actually attempted to learn all the software, but was primarily using the spreadsheet application, QuattroPro, to track her parents bar bill. (Hermione had come across the concept of sublimated hostility, and summarily rejected it. Her hostility was out, very proud, and somewhat … piercing.) She updated it every time her caretakers produced her for inspection, as if to show that they had passed the necessary conditions to be considered adults. As the whispers started, "It's a shame about those teeth," or worse, "that hair!", Hermione would produce her list of alcoholic consumables (and estimated prices) that had flowed through the house that month. Lately, she had begun adding quotes from their guest's appraisal of the potables, which sounded more … indefensibly pretentious than in their original venue.

W. Daniel would fix a patently false smile and accept the upbraiding, because he knew that if he did not … strange things would happen. Inexplicable things. Socially embarrassing things. Cosmetic surgeries became impossible to ignore. Mr. Granger once dreamt that his ear tuck and jaw shaping had reverted to their before state – the nightmare! And if anyone dared laugh at the girl, well …

… worse things happened. An up and coming assistant to the local MP suddenly found a very unsightly and irregular growth on his face. An opinion editor who was not shy about airing said opinions abruptly found her teeth noticeably larger; not just the front teeth, but those in the rest of the jaw as well, forcing the incisors into an up-and-out translation before finally settling into an … an air-cooled position. Several guests had found their night at the Granger's to be the precursor to a rather large cosmetic surgery bill – aside from that one rodent-eyed chap who had been gifted with the most amazing case of wind that would not stop presenting itself at the most inauspicious times.

Mr. Granger shuddered. For the past three years, he had endured the moralizing from his daughter in order to prevent the unnatural and uncomfortable from becoming real; and every time as she left, brandishing her little spreadsheet printout, he thought; You are the reason I drink so mush. Much.

For all the embarrassment, it was fortunate that their social circle was highly narcissistic and rather less observant than the average subject of the Crown; the … events … were infrequent enough that none of their social set had made the connection between 'drinks at the Grangers' and 'inexplicable personal tragedy'. Thus, the drinks went on, and so did the … unnaturalness.

On September 19, 1990, the Granger family was gathered by an insistent call from the front door, where they found Hermione warily eyeing … a woman that virtually defined the trope of 'dried up spinster'. Dr. W. Daniel Granger, with no great warmth, asked, "May we help you?"

The woman sniffed. "I am here to present to your daughter, Hermione Granger, an exclusive offer for a rather special boarding school. May I come inside?" She was whip thin, of medium height, and sported a sour expression on her face that, according to the deep lines, had been there for many decades. Her black outfit was particularly ancient in style, and showed enough wear that it could be equally ancient in provenance – the black had worn well past Charcoal, though Iron, Shadow, and Pebble, and was now venturing almost into Smoke. Clearly, regardless of her diction, she was a Scot.

"How much?" blurted out Mrs. Dr. Granger. There had been a particularly bad event last weekend, and now the prospect of relief was rather … seductive.

The severe teacher had tightened her lips, and merely repeated, "May I come in?" Mr. Dr. Granger was amused that her speech did, indeed, show traces of the High Country barbarism. He kept that to himself, and swept his hand inwards as an invitation that the crone quickly accepted.

Hermione followed with a narrow-eyed suspicion; she knew full well how her parents regarded her, and was viciously opposed to being shipped off to a boarding school. Apparently, the little swot was intent on repaying all her perceived misery, regardless of the cost or the eventual outcome of mutual homicide. But she knew that her parents weren't that good at deceiving her, so this was a surprise to them as well – which meant that this offer wasn't part of their household campaigns against each other.

Once settled in the parlour (where the schoolmarm selected a high back chair with miniscule padding), the conversation began in earnest. "Mr. and Mrs. Granger," she began, only to be interrupted.

"That's 'Dr. and Dr.', Professor," Mrs. Dr. Granger put in.

A bit bewildered by the interruption, the Professor said, "Ah, excuse me?"

"We're both dentists, Professor. The correct form of address is 'Dr.', for both of us," explained the Mr. Dr. Granger.

The Mrs. Dr. quickly chose to lower the apparent formality of the visit with, "But I am M. Emma Granger, and my husband is W. Daniel Granger. If we are not to stand on titles, you may use our given names." M. Emma attempted a winsome smile that was supposed to put her guest at ease and simultaneously show that the family of the house was of impossibly higher standards and breeding. The disconnect between what was attempted and what was achieved came from the lack of alcohol running through everyone's veins – something that gave M. Emma, in particular, great regrets.

The visiting teacher gave a blank look, shook her head, and attempted to recover. "Emma, then, you may have …"

The lady of the house interrupted again, "That's M. Emma, for myself, and W. Daniel for my husband. Omitting the initial letter would be … plebian."

Three blinks. Hermione, on a chair suitably out of the way for the adults to talk, rolled her eyes. She had seen her mother harp on this point, shutting down all conversation, for over ten minutes at a time.

Hermione was not willing to wait, nor was she willing to prop up her parent's affectations. "Professor, you have yet to introduce yourself, I assume that you teach at the school you mentioned?"

That was enough to put the old lady back on track, and focused on the young lady rather than her bewildering parents. "Ah, yes. I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, and I have been sent to bring you an exclusive opportunity. First," she hesitated, "have you noticed that there are occasional events in your life that defy explanation and that may be associated with times of great emotion?"

The three Grangers glanced at each other. This woman was not a member of the household, but had openly spoken of events that nobody wanted to face – or even name. Just escape. An uncomfortable silence reigned in the parlour.

Eventually, Professor McGonagall continued. "Those events happen because Hermione has the ability to do magic, and her emotional stress has triggered this talent. Once she has completed her training at Hogwarts, her talent will be fully under control and will pose no danger to any bystanders."

There was a great deal of skepticism and outright disbelief coming from the Granger's – all three of them – and none of it was disguised. "Magic is real?" asked Hermione, with an audible snort.

In response, the professor withdrew a thin stick, a little less than a foot long, from her sleeve and waved it at the coffee table in the center of the seating arrangement; the table blurred and reformed into a lion … complete with authenticating stench.

Now that was convincing. Well, not the lion itself – but the amazing amount of urine that soaked their Authentic Reproduction Persian Rug. Something that didn't go away when the lion did, and served to remind them that their imaginations were rather small in the new universe that had been revealed. A revelation so shocking that nobody demanded recompense for the ruination of the Granger parlour.

-o-

As Professor McGonagall let herself out of the distressingly Muggle home, she reflected on how the typical Muggle experience of magic progressed. Wonder, enthusiasm, then dogged persistence, and eventually, disillusionment and departure. She wondered anew at the reasons usually given; how could the Muggle world possibly compensate for the lack of magic when it was run by people with no self-restraint, had no regard for propriety, and could not be bothered to locate their extended families? She shook her head to aid in clearing her thoughts. Regardless, the Grangers clearly had inflated notions of their own worth, and the lass was in for a difficult transition.

Minerva secretly wondered for a fleeting second if the loss of this particular student would be all that regrettable – for either side.

Author Note: I am now aware that in the UK, dentists did not receive the title "doctor." If it matters to you, remind yourself that this is an alternate universe, so that's one of the differences. It only matters to show what kind of people the adult Grangers are, and will not impact the story in any other way. You may now resume your suspension of disbelief.